


Needy

by mia_winchester



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Best Friends, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Come Eating, Come Marking, Come Sharing, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Dark, Dark Harry, Dark Niall, Explicit Sexual Content, Florida, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Oral Sex, Rain, Rain Sex, Rough Sex, Sad, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_winchester/pseuds/mia_winchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s raining and he’s lonely.</p><p>Harry says it’s natural.</p><p>He says: We all crave affection. We want to be touched. It’s a basic human need.</p><p>He means: I want to touch you.</p><p>Niall knows it’s not right. But Niall is a man. Niall uses, Niall takes. What he wants and what he needs. And Niall needs Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needy

I used to really like winter. Back in Mullingar, winter meant waking up to glistening white snowflakes that had quietly fallen over night to cover the roofs and the asphalt in a thick, soft blanket. It meant walking to school in the freezing cold, red nose and itchy cheeks in the flickering golden lights of the street lamps, slowly making your way through the snow, wrapped up in a jacket, an ugly, scratchy wool jumper and two shirts beneath. It meant getting home by dawn, just in time for tea and biscuits with the family and watching the traditional December program by the christmas tree, even though you already knew each word in every film, each line in every holiday episode of your favourite sitcom by heart. Love, actually. Blackadder’s Christmas Carol. The Grinch. It meant weekends in your old flannel pyjamas, snowball fights and the inescapable, common nostalgic excitement for Christmas Eve. There was some sort of magic lingering in the icy air, with the scent of cinnamon and baked apples and the sound of carols in the distance as well as the quiet chatter of reunited familys who hurried to get to the shops to purchase last minute gifts. The narrow streets in our neighbourhood were the illuminated, vibrant, yet silent home of the spirit of christmas. I believe I could be a kid again if I went back. Winter in Mullingar has always been enchanting.

But everything’s different now. And winter on tour sucks.

You don’t have the time to stroll through the alleys and look at the sweets and goods through the prettily decorated display windows. And even if I went, there’d be people who’d recognise me. Mob me. It’s gotten a lot worse lately. Everybody’s watching me. And it’s beginning to scare me. You don’t get the time to be an anonymous visitor on a little christmas market. You don’t even get the time to watch that goddamn holiday episode of Mr. Bean.

There’s no such thing as a proper winter in Florida anyway. It’s warm. Rainy, but warm. The sky is grey, thick clouds pour down every other hour, but it’s still as fucking warm as an early summer day in Ireland. It’s the the twenty-first of December and I’m in sweatpants and a short sleeved shirt. I’m so tired. I want to go out. I wish I could leave this hotel. Go to the fucking beach at least. Watch the waves, watch the people. Maybe talk to some strangers. I’ve never been the type to do that. I like to keep myself to myself. But recently, I’ve been feeling very lonely. And I crave any kind of attention other than teenage girls screaming at my face, telling me to fuck them, or my bandmates and co-workers going from smalltalk to business too quick for me to follow. I don’t know if I can do this much longer. I don’t recognise myself anymore.

I feel like I’m stuck on the haunting feeling that the out-of-body experience you go through when you stop in front of a mirror, fixate on the reflection of your face and say your own name many times in a row leaves you with: Niall. Niall. Niall. Niall. Niallniallniallniallniall. You just lose touch with reality. And you wonder: Why am I here, right here, out of all places in the world, in this body, out of all bodies, living this life, out of all possible ways to exist, and who the fuck am I, actually? I’ve been pondering on these questions for the last few weeks and never before did they mess with my head so bad.

I’m going through a change. It’s alright. I’m a progressive person. People are a process. There is no such thing as a final personality. Our views and beliefs, habits and interests constantly change. I was sure about a few things, though, but the experiences I’ve made and what I’ve gone through in the past months have shook my principles to their very foundations.

And I’m looking at the face of a twenty-year old with a stubbly, prominent chin, and a nose he secretly always found a little too big, a forehead bump like a human from the Stone Age and little cuts and zits from shaving all over his cheeks and his thick neck and he is a man; I am a man, I have hair on my chest and broad shoulders, I have big hands and a low voice but they call me the kid in the band, the child, to them, I’ve been that ever since.They’re wrong. I am a man. I know myself. I know my priorities. I know my body and I know my mind.

But people are a process. And I don’t know the stranger I’m becoming yet. You cannot label what you don’t understand. And you can’t judge what you have no idea of.

I’ve been thinking about calling her. And by her, I mean one of the seven hers I can’t ever name in public, unless I want them, and me, to get into a kind of trouble you do not wish on your worst enemy. My Florida Her is a month younger and three inches taller than me. I’ve been spotted with her. We’ve been in magazines. She’s well-known. A model. The press writes there’s no need to worry. They say she’s in a happy relationship with her boyfriend, an actor himself. She says he’s a dick and that she prefers mine. She says he’d never fuck her like I do. She says I am her king. And I feel like one when I take her. But I’m getting sick of this game. And they’re getting wary. I can’t let them see me with her again. Staying single and out of trouble is crucial. The management promised it wouldn’t be this way. I was a fool to trust them.

I can’t call her. I won’t call her. It’s better off this way. I am lonely. I’ll be lonely with her. I’ll stay lonely.

It’s moments like this when I wish it was over. I don’t want to turn back time and never know what it’s like. I love what it’s like. In a sick, self-destructive way, it’s fun. But I crave the calm after the storm. My life’s been a hurricane for long enough. I miss floating. I catch myself dreaming of returning to my hometown. Of leaving London and everything that reminds me of One Direction behind. I dream of building a house and raising a family. A son, a daughter, a dog and a wife. I dream of a wife that won’t leave me for the next best man with charme and a guitar. She doesn’t have to be a cover model. I won’t be looking for a Friday night text to get off to. I’ll be looking for warmth to wake up to on a Sunday morning. Then. When it’s all over.

It’s not close to being over yet.

I feel dead.

"Cabin Fever.", I text him. "Come around."

We don’t share a room in this hotel. He’s on the same floor, but he asked to be alone this time. It hurt me. I know it shouldn’t. I’ve been wondering why. He never bothered before. He likes my presence. I know that. He always wanted me around. Even if he had someone else over. A woman. Women. Men. I get along with all of them. It goes like this: I leave when they fuck. I come back when they’re done. In the meantime, I go for walks. Work on songs. Meet her. Or her. Or her. At least I used to.

Lately, my escape spot’s been whichever bar was closest. Something about kicking myself out to give him space and time to fuck has started to piss me off. I got drunk to ease that feeling of…What? Jealousy? Anger. Maybe he noticed that. Maybe, attentive and caring as he is, he thought he’d do me a favour with seperated rooms. He didn’t.

Other than pictures of things that reminded him of me and invitations to gatherings he’s the first to know of, he barely ever texts. That’s why his response is his knuckles on wood, three times, knock, knock, knock, like his silly jokes. I get up from bed and cross the suite with a few steps. It’s one of the more expensive hotels. Simple design. White and grey. And glass. Very modern. The window takes up an entire wall. I can see the ocean and the beach and the rooftops of the city by its order below. I’m on a level with the seagulls.

"You called, Sir?" He asks as I open the door. He’s wearing jeans, but no shoes. No socks either. His shirt’s just hanging from his shoulders. Three sizes too big, half unbuttoned. A dark shade of burgundy. His hair is the usual mess, but it looks like he tried to comb it to left a minute ago. Like he did it for me.

"Yeh, that’s right.", I say in a French accent. "Could you bring me a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé, s’il vous plaît, with a plate of your finest truffle selection?"

"Of course, Sir. Whatever you wish for." He drops a curtsey like a lady and I chuckle.

"Just come in, idiot."

He smirks and walks past me, looking around. “Your room’s bigger than mine.”, he remarks. “And the view is much better. You can see the beach. I can’t see the beach from my window.”

"We could have shared this room.", I say. I laugh, like I dropped that to tease him. Like I don’t really mind that we’re divided.

He just nods, eyes still glued to the blue behind the glass. Maybe it’s better not to talk about it anyway. There must be a reason. But he would let me know if he wanted me to. He has his principles. I have mine. He’s a grown man. I’m a grown man.

"It’s so quiet.", he then mutters. "But this isn’t the good kind of silence. I don’t like this."

"Me neither. That’s why I asked you to come over."

"I’m not a loud lad.", he says, finally turning around to look at me. "Why didn’t you ask Liam?"

"Are you trying to avoid me?", I ask. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that he is and will always be my first choice. He is my best friend. I favour him no matter what.

"No, Niall, I am not trying to avoid you.", he calmy replies. Didn’t baffle him like I thought it would. It’s almost as if he expected me to pose this question. What he adds confirms my suspicion. "I succesfully, purposely avoid you."

My mouth spits out a harsh “And why?” before my stomach drops in response to his honest answer.

"I feel like you need some time on your own. I feel like you need to sort some things out. There’s been a lot stuff going on lately. I can tell you’re exhausted. I know that you’re tired. I know you need a break.", he explains in a steady, serious tone.

He knows I’m numb.

Exactly what I have been anticipating. He perceives his distant behaviour as a selfless act of help for a friend that doesn’t need any.

I don’t need help. I don’t need guidance.

And I don’t need the loneliness being cut off from the only person I am sure of loving anymore has brought upon me. It’s like a hole in my chest. A black, gaping hole where my heart should be racing on the high they say my life is. It’s been a low for a while now.

"I might need a break, but not from you.", I laugh. I try to play downplay it. As usual. "You’re my mate. You’re my brother."

"You’re my best friend.", he says. He’s not laughing like me. "But you’re also an asshole. You’ve been a moody fucking asshole lately."

I swallow the acid my saliva has turned into while listening to the truth spilling from his weirdly feminine lips and inhale deeply. Am I angry? Absolutely. Is he wrong? Absolutely not.

"Alright.", is all I’m capable of saying. "You’re right."

"You’re mad at me." Not a question. An observation.

I shake my head. He knows I’m lying. “Let’s end this now.”

"There’s not much more to say anyway.", he agrees. Just to comfort me. Just to keep me calm. There’s a thousand words stuck in my throat, wanting to be spat at him. A hundred incidents and plans we should discuss. About a dozen truths we can’t seem to acknowledge, but have to.

"Thought you were at least going to lecture me about smoking.", I mutter with a smirk and trot back to the bed.

"I never told you not to smoke. I just told you not to get caught.", he reminds me with a wink.

I turn on the TV and we do what we’re used to. We hang. We talk. Pointless topics. Meaningless words. It’s raining outside by now. Harry talks about christmas in Holmes Chapel. He’s been betrayed by the ghost of the holidays just like my sappy self. He misses home, just like me.

Nationa Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is on. He mouths along with the little girl saying “Everytime a bell rings, an angel gets his wings” and laughs to himself, thinking I don’t watch him.

I cackle at the grandpa sleeping in the top bunk so he can stare at the poster of the half naked woman that’s glued to the ceiling. “That’s you in sixty years.”, Harry says. “That’s you.”

"Except I’m going to have a babe next to me as well.", I respond.

"A twenty year old pole dancer that calls you Daddy.", he adds and yawns.

"You can bet your ass I will.", I insist. "That’s the plan." We both know that it’s not.

We remain quiet for the rest of the film. When it’s over, though, I sense he’s been waiting to ask me: “Why didn’t you call her? Or her?”

I want to tell him I’m just lonely. Not horny. But I am horny. Fucked my hand last night. Yet it feels like I didn’t get to cum in ages. Not the way I want to. I don’t want another quickly achieved, hasty orgasm for the sake of its short satisfaction only, that goes as fast as I came: Wiped off my stomach, washed off my hands.

No. I want to fuck. I want to fuck into the wet warmth of someone’s tight hole and edge, edge, edge, then start over new. Fuck harder. Edge. I want a body against mine and someone’s taste on my tongue, I want to possess whoever’s willing to let me in, want to take them, feel them, then fill them up.

"Too risky.", I say. Thinking of fucking her ass.

"Did you ever care?", Harry laughs. "Who are you?"

"Don’t ask me.", I mutter. "Look, Harry, I just didn’t feel like calling her. I felt like spending time with my best mate. If you wanna leave, the door’s over there. For my part, I’m enjoying myself."

"For my part, I’m enjoying myself.", he mocks my accent. "I’m not gonna leave, Niall. I’ve got nothing to do either. Can’t go out. No one’s coming in. You were so right. This feels like cabin fever."

I wake up with my head on his shoulder.

I’ve been drooling on his shirt. I never meant to fall asleep.

"I’m sorry.", I mumble. "What time is it?" I turn my head and the sudden interruption of our physical contact feels like removing a patch on a not quite healed wound too quickly. It was nice to be so close to someone, even if I wasn’t fully aware of it. I am very ashamed now, though. Men don’t cuddle.

"No need to apologise.", he calmly says, picking up his phone. "Almost five pm. Are you hungry? Do you want me to order us some food?"

"Uh-uh, I’m not hungry.", I rasp. "Are you hungry?"

"I’m not hungry either."

There’s something in his eyes that I cannot construe. The corners of his mouth are twitching as if he’s trying not to smile, and the look he’s giving me is provocative but unsure, challenging but coy.

It unsettles me.

"Really, though. Sorry I drooled on your shirt and used you as a pillow.", I mutter.

"It’s okay, Niall.", he sighs. "It’s nice to be touched and be tender with someone for a change."

"You take part in orgies every other night.", I scoff.

"You can’t compare this. It’s not the same. I don’t get to cuddle often."

"Well, we weren’t cuddling."

"Weren’t we?"

"Don’t be ridiculous, Harold. Of course not."

He exhales loudly. “But do you want to cuddle?”

Yes, I do.

"No. What?" I’m laughing again. Trying to turn it into a joke, I become one. I move over to the edge of the bed, trying to enlarge the space between us and turn my back on him.

"I asked you if you want to cuddle."

Yes, I do.

"Niall, come on.", he adds. "Its okay. We all crave affection and physical contact from time to time. It’s a basic human need. I get lonely and desperate for someone to just, you know, hold me, too. You don’t have to feel weird about it, Niall."

I wish he’d say my name less.

"No, thank you." I don’t give in, but I swing my legs back on the matress, so that we’re sitting side by side again, far enough apart not to brush against each other as I get comfortable.

"I’m worried about you.", he blurts out after three minutes of silence, except for the sound of raindrops pattering against the thick glass. He must have muted the TV while I slept.

I look at him and frown. Let him see my overdone expression of sceptisism. “Harry. Hey. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He presses his pink lips together. Gives me a leery stare. Rolls his eyes. Fixates mine. Opens his mouth and closes it again. Opens it. Closes it. Opens it and says: “But I do. It’s just how it is.”

The serious concern in his face stirs something in my stomach. It’s like a clot of etching mud that soaks up my gastric acid first, then melts into a fiery venom that’s dispersing into each vein in my body, intoxicating me with thrill. My blood is boiling. I’m so warm on the inside. I’m glowing.

I put my palm on the back of his hand and he doesn’t even flinch. I trace the violet lines under his skin with my thumb, unable to look at his face now, but I know he’s watching mine. Is he waiting for me to crack one, pull back and back out?

I know I won’t this time. But does he know it, too?

Slowly, I slide down the headboard, into the pillows, and roll on my side to put my head back on his shoulder. He lifts his arm and wraps it around me, captivating me in his embrace.

I hold her like this. And her. And her. This is how I hold my women. They like it. It makes them feel safe. Fragile. Protected. It does the same for me now.

"Are you happy now? Is that what you want?", I murmur into the burgundy fabric.

"No. That’s what you want.", he says. "But yes, I’m happy. Want me to turn the volume back on?"

"Uh-uh.", I mumble.

"Like the sound of the rain on the window?"

"Mhm."

"That’s not how you had imagined to spend the holidays, huh?", he quietly asks. His voice is so raspy. He drank last night. "Working, even if it’s for charity. Of course you’re worn out, I would be, too. Can’t even go out. And the beach is so beautiful. I wouldn’t mind the storm, I-"

"Harry, you don’t have to do this.", I interrupt him.

"Do what?"

"Talk about the weather to make this less awkward."

"This isn’t awkward." I can feel his warm breath on my forehead. "This is good. But if you want me to take my arm off of you again, I will-"

"No." No, no, no. Please don’t let go of me. "Keep it there. It’s alright."

Countless nights in his position, with a soft girl body pressed against mine, still covered in our juices from fucking, we’d kiss, we wouldn’t talk, we’d share a cigarette, sometimes a blunt. And I thought to myself: I am a man. I know myself. This is a priority. To my mind and to my body. This is what I do, this is what I love.

Now, my body, heart and soul seem to plot against my mind. I am a man in the arms of another man and I am blessed. But is it right? Is it safe? It feels right. And it feels safe. Never before have I been held with such security. Maybe when I was a little baby. Alas, I can’t vividly recall the years in which my mum would cradle and sing me to sleep, and a mother’s fondness for her child lacks the impure excitement nestling up to someone I shouldn’t be so close to gives me. Are we disguising something tainted as an act of clemency? Or is this nothing but the friendly turn he offered in first place?

He said that craving physical contact is natural. I said it’s alright.

I can feel his finger drawing circles on my back. His chest is raising with every breath he takes, heartbeat’s thumping in his ribcage. I wish I could believe he’s not nervous, just on coke again, but I know him too well. He’s sober. And flusterted like a first row girl. I always fidget. Rock back and borth. Bite my nails, scratch my back. Harry just freezes. I let tension consume me. Harry sucks it up.

He puts his other hand on my forearm, giving me an electric shock.

"Ouch. I’m sorry." He says and draws it back. But I grip his wrist and put it where it hurt again. He begins to timidly caress me, feeling the hair on my arm under his fingers, tickling me. "Is that okay with you?", he quietly asks. "Can I touch you like this?"

I say: “Yes.”

I think: Keep touching me. Not just like this. Not just there.

I know: This is wrong.

I also know: I don’t care.

I want: More.

"It’s not bad, is it?" His lips are half an inch away from brushing my forehead and I wish he’d lean closer. Just to find out how it feels. On my forehead. Maybe my nose, then my mouth.

"It’s not bad.", I assure him. I add "It’s weird, but it’s okay for now, I guess", to ease my mind, but I lie and I won’t let me fool myself.

He’s pushing his body against mine. He’s been craving this, too. I was dying to be touched with such tenderness and I haven’t even been aware of it. Was he longing for this as well? Is he just as needy as me?

I want to touch him now. It’s my turn. I put my hand on his wrist again, squeeze, though I don’t know why, then stroke all the way up to the crook of his arm, following the outlines of the black ink on his tan skin. My fingertips leave goosebumps on him. He likes the way it feels. I gently tickle him and he flinches, jerking his leg. “Ni-all.”, he giggles. “Don’t!”

This is the perfect oppurtunity to turn this into some silly, palsy-walsy school boy banter. I could go for his pits, tickle till he’s close to pissing himself. We could mess around a bit, like we’re back in fifth grade. Just two lads having a fun fight. And that’s all we’d allow ourselves to remember afterwards. But I don’t want to stultify the almost sacred tension of this moment. For once, I don’t want to turn my feelings into a fucking joke. They matter. I matter. He matters. And whatever this is, matters, too.

So, instead, I lead his hand to my mouth. Watch his face as I peck his palm: Once. His eyes widen. Twice. The corners of his lips twitch, the dimples on their sides deepen. Thrice. He says “Thank you.” And I think about kissing him.

Sometimes, when I drive, I get scared I might force myself to turn around the steering wheel and crash into the guarding rail. Just to see what it’s like. It’s the same dark urge you feel when you’re standing on the edge of a high building or hover your hand over a fire. You could. It’s so easy.

If I grab my jaw and jerk, can I break my own neck?

Why does the frisson I feel asking myself this equate to the almost threatening consideration of giving in to the temptation Harry’s lips are? Is there really that much to lose?

His hand’s on my face now, caressing my cheek.

"You’re really warm.", he remarks.

I feel electric.

I put my leg over his, shove the other one under it. Clutch his thigh between mine. Is he going to push me away? He bucks his hips to get more comfortable, then stretches so I can properly wrap myself around him. No. He’s not going to push me away. And I know he can feel it, I know he feels the glowing spot that’s pressed against his side and he feels that I’m grinding and fuck, I am so ashamed, so ashamed of being such a needy, whiny little boy in my best friend’s arms but I can’t help myself and I need, desperately need his closeness, need his affection.

And I am a man. I take what I need.

He’s pushing his thigh against my crotch, offering me himself. I keep grinding and close my eyes to focus on the friction. It’s good. So good.

I can hear his heart beating fast.. Hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His hand on my arm is gripping me tightly. I put my mine on his chest and slowly slide it further down. I rip open the buttons of his burgundy shirt. He holds his breath.

I’m warm? He’s burning.

I can feel the little bumps of what’s a sixpack when he flexes. I splay my fingers to cover as much of his stomach as I can. I always do the same to her. Or her. Big hands on bodies make the souls inside feel tiny and vulnerable. She likes it. I think Harry likes it, too.

He’s taller than me, bigger than me, stronger than me. Lean muscle under sun kissed skin where I’m just a layer of fat on fragile bones. And he holds me. I’m a little wave of boiling water crashing against a solid rock. But I am the one in control. I give him purpose. I give him reason. What use is there in a rock in the ocean if the water around it is always still?

It’s pretty clear now. He’ll let me, but he won’t lead me on.

But do I want to be the one to change the tides?

I don’t know.

I open my eyes again. Look over to the window. It’s still pelting. I look up to him.

"Niall, I-" My name’s a plea from his mouth.

"Ssshhhh.", I hush him. "It’s okay."

Do I want to be the one to change the tides?

Yes, I do.

He tastes like peppermint gum and his lips are softer than I ever imagined. Not just soft for man’s lips, no, probably the softest I have ever put mine on. He responds to my sudden kiss with a muffled groan that vibrates in the back of my throat as I open my mouth to let his tongue in. I can feel its tip on mine and I shiver when they collide.

I bite and tug on his bottom lip with my teeth, I’m a rough kisser, even if this is by far the most tender, most coy kiss of my life so far. It’s like my first time, and in a way, it is my first time. No, fuck, it’s not like I haven’t thought it about it before. It’s not like I haven’t been pondering on this fantasy many nights and in the end, I always caught myself finding it oddly arousing. But this isn’t happening in my head. This is happening on and in my mouth and my whole body’s set afire by how fucking good it feels.

I think: I really like this.

I think: I want more than this.

I think: I’ve wanted this for a long time.

I slide my hand down his stomach and palm the hard bulge in his tight pants. He gasps and freezes.

"Niall, what are you doing?", he asks, his voice nothing but a raspy hum.

"What are we doing?", I counter.

"Please, Niall, I don’t think we-"

"Ssshhhhh. It’s okay, Harry."

"Is it?"

"It’s okay."

He bucks his hips against my hand.

I think: He really likes this.

I think: He wants more than this.

I think: He’s been wanting this for a long time.

I try to unbuckle his belt without taking my lips off of his. I love kissing him. It’s complicated to pull the expensive leather through the heavy silver buckle. Harry takes his hand off me to help me pulling his pants down. It must hurt to be so hard in such tight jeans. I’m so fucking hard in my sweats. For him.

I tell myself not to fucking start doubting what I do. Even if this is different from what I’m used to, even if this is utterly insane, goddamn fucking crazy and probably wrong, a big fucking mistake, a disaster, - I know that I need it.

What must be, must be.

My hand’s in his boxers now. I feel his bristly pubes on my palm. Not as much of a bush as the one in mine. The radiating heat of what I’m about to grip is getting me more excited and worked up than the sweet scent of my first ever girlfriend’s wet cunt before I went down on her for the first time. I fucked her right after she came on my tongue. Was her first orgasm, too. Poor thing was shaking like crazy, almost crying from the overstimulation, but I couldn’t stop myself. She liked it though. She told me. Of course she did. I fuck good. I’ve always loved to fuck.

I realise I’m going to fuck Harry.

I wrap my hand around his cock and he whimpers like a little girl. I chuckle into our kiss. He’s so big. So big and so, so hard for me. I begin to work my wrist, using my thumb to tease his tip with every move. A little bit of sticky leaked pre cum runs down my index finger. It tickles.

Out with blokes, you always make jokes about gay sex. I know half of them don’t even kiss their girl after she’s sucked them off till her jaw went numb just because they’re grossed out by the taste of their own juice. Fucking stupid if you ask me. Those guys are the real joke. I’m sick of them. I don’t know if this is gay sex. I don’t care. I’m not gay. What I am is, I am sick of labelling things. Sick of trying to figure things out. Throughout a process, you don’t have to be sure of anything.

For now, all I know is, I want this. Need this. Love this.

"Mhh, fuck.", Harry groans.

"Good?", I ask. "You like that?"

I kiss his neck now. He smells so good. Musky. Manly. I let my lips trail down to the little crook of his shoulder and gently bite him. He chuckles. I’m gonna leave hickeys.

"Tell me.", I say. "Tell me how it feels. Do you like what I do to you?"

I touch him like I jack myself off, still grinding on his thigh.

"Mhmh. Yes. Fuck. I like it.", he groans, beginning to thrust into my hand. "I wanna…" He interrupts himself with a shaky little moan. "I want to…"

"Shh, shh.", I soothe him. "What do you want?"

"I wanna touch you, too." he sighs. "Please. Don’t make me cum and leave it at that."

"I wasn’t planning on that.", I assure him. "Don’t worry."

Mostly because I need to cum just as much. And I want him to make me.

"This isn’t right. I started this… I’m supposed to make you feel good.", he whispers, truly flustered, and it seems as if he’s trying to pull himself together and come to his senses. "I wanna make you feel good." His hand’s squeezing my wrist now, he’s trying to make me stop. I look up, kiss his chin. "How, baby?"

The nickname slips from my lips before I even know I mean it. He smiles. He’s my baby. Taller than me, bigger than me, stronger than me. And my baby. At least right now.

I could climb on his lap. Finally pull my sweatpants down. Look at him while we jack each other off, cum all over his stomach. Mark him with it.

But I don’t just want his hand around my cock. I want to take him. Want to fuck him. I want to feel him from the inside, then taste him, or the other way around, I just want him, so, so bad, I wanna make him moan even louder, make him say my name like a plea again, I want him, him, him.

"I know how.", he mumbles. And then, he pushes me away, a reminder of how strong he really is, gets up and pins me down. He poises over me for a bit, just staring, smirking. His hair’s a mess, casting dark shadows on his flushed face. Clutching me between his thighs so I cannot move, he takes off the shirt that’s only hanging from his shoulders anymore anyway, pulls his jeans a little further down to get more comfortable. And I take the chance to look at what’s he’s been fucking into my fist. I’ve seen his cock. Plenty of times. Never like this, though.

"Arms up.", he instructs. "Come, let me help you." He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it across the room. I can’t help but laugh. I try to sit up and catch a kiss, but he places his beringed hands on my hairy chest to keep me down. "Uh-uh. You lay down and enjoy.", he says, so quietly it’s almost drowned out by the raindrops.

I’m not used to this. Passive sex. Only when I’m too drunk or too stoned to do anything. I don’t like being used. I don’t like being taken.

I use. I take.

But Harry is not really trying to be in charge. He’s submitting to me, even if on top. He wants to serve me. I’m okay with that. I want that. I realise I’d be okay if he fucked me, too. I need him. No matter how. Just need him close. It seems so natural.

It’s a basic human need.

I buck my hips, getting a little impatient. He’s on top of me like he’s gonna ride me, but then, he licks his lips and crawls backwards, hooking his fingers under the band of my sweatpants and pulling them down way too slowly. I’m not wearing boxers, which seems to amuse him. He’s seen my cock before. Plenty of times. Never like this, though.

He grins and wraps his hand around it. Looks at me. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.”

I frown. Why wouldn’t I want to? The sight of someone taking me in full length, their saliva all over my throbbing cock, their glassy eyes and how they tear up when they gag on me since I tend to try and fuck their throat is, in all honesty, my favourite thing to look at in the whole world. Why wouldn’t I want to watch myself fucking into a beautiful mouth like Harry’s?

Something begins to dawn on me, but I try to suppress the suspicion.

"I wanna watch.", I mutter, squirming impatiently. I’m excited. The numbness of the past months has been replaced by a raging storm inside of my needy body. Like a fever.

I feel alive.

Harry nods. I place my hand on his cheek and stroke him, but he doesn’t nuzzle against it like I did, he just stares at me with something in his eyes that I cannot read. I grab him by his hair instead, soft locks tangle around my fingers, push it behind his ears to have a better view.

"I’m gonna make you love it.", he promises. He lowers his head, his lush lips part. I hold my breath. He kisses my tip, licks up what leaked. "Niall James, you’ve got a very pretty cock."

We both laugh. My head is spinning.

He strokes my hairy thighs, making me shiver all over. “Pretty meaty, milky thighs.”, he mutters. “Mhm. Gonna make you cum so fucking hard.”

"Fuck, Harry,-", I growl, "just fucking suck it already."

"Of course, Sir. Whatever you wish for.", he murmurs and I know he tries to make it sound like a joke, but there’s a subliminal sobriety to his words and it’s giving me a stomach cramp.

Don’t. Start. To. Doubt.

The next thing I feel is the tip of my cock hitting the back of his warm throat. I wince. He takes me in as far as he can, flat tongue under my shaft.

"That’s it.", I praise. I want him to like it. Want him to enjoy it. And I wonder if he’s done it before.

There have always were mainly women, sometimes men as well. For some reason, I believed they were only there to help with the girls. More holes to fill. I was stupid to think so. Another stomach cramp comes with the sudden realisation that he had to be the one to change the tides long before me. And the question whether or whether not he has been fantasizing about this before, too.

It’s alright. Craving physical affection is natural.

"Good.", I say, beginning to thrust up a little "Is that okay?"

"Mhmhm." He nods. His lips are soft, gently wrapped around me, his spit’s dripping from his lips and he works his tongue, tracing the throbbing veins on my cock.

"Good boy.", I praise, hoping it won’t irritate him. But that’s what he is. A good boy. Doing this for me. No, it’s not just a friendly turn. Best friends don’t do that. A best friend doesn’t suck his best friend’s cock.

I’m the roaring sea in the sheets which are slightly damp from my sweat already, and my rock’s holding me down, eagerly bobbing his head to please me.

He tilts back and I immediately push myself back in. I think I wanted to make him gag. And it worked. He chokes and squints. I ask “Alright?” and in response, he just smiles at me with big, watery, green eyes and puts his wet lips back where I need them.

"Fucking hell.", I cuss and suck the stuffy hotel room air through my teeth so sharply it burns in my lungs. I watch propped up on my elbows and it’s hard to stay in this position when I’m not just suppressing my urge to squirm, but also my wish to grab and flip him over to properly fuck his pretty face. Leave him no choice but to deepthroat me. But these are fantasies. My real intentions with Harry are pretty tender. I don’t want to hurt him. Not much. But I want to fuck him. First his face. Then his ass.

"That’s it.", I say, earlier than I wanted to. "Enough." I pull his hair to make him tilt back. Watch the saliva dribble from his glistening bottom lip, on the tip of my cock. There’s a little bubble by the right corner of his mouth that pops just as I spot it.

"What?", he asks, shaky voice, nervous look in his sweaty face.

"I wanna fuck you.", I tell him, wiping the spit off his chin with my thumb. I lead my hand to my mouth to taste it and watch the expression in his face change. He hestitates, but he nods.

"You don’t have to be scared, baby, okay?", I soothe him and sit up again, scooting over to the side of the bed and pat the matress to make him lay down next to me. I don’t want to fuck him on his fours like an animal. I want to be as close as I can to him. "Won’t hurt you. Got lube and all we need right here." I open the top drawer of my nightstand. I always keep the essentials close. I’m a man.

"That’s not it.", he mutters, shaking his head. He takes his pants off completely and shoves them off the bed.

"What is it?", I ask.

"Doesn’t matter.", he sighs, peeking at my cock like the sight excites him and proceeding to crawl towards me. "Don’t worry about me."

"But I do.", I say, like he did before. "I always worry about you. It’s just how it is."

"Thank you, Niall." He kisses my forehead and turns around. "It’s going to be okay."

He lays down on his side, legs parted like a pair of scissors, sticks out his ass for me to take, and I trace the side of his body with my fingertip before I reach out to grab the lube and condoms.

Looking over his shoulder, he mumbles: “Keep that off.”

"But,-" I begin and this time, he’s the one to hush me.

"I don’t worry about you in this case and you don’t have to worry about me.", he calmly says.

I open my mouth to tell him that I, in fact, trust him, but instead, I hear myself sighing: “I’m not your first.”

"No.", he quietly responds. He’s not ashamed. And I’m not mad. I think I knew.

"Well, you’re my first.", I chuckle, squeezing the little bottle to pour some lube on my palms.

"And probably your last.", I hear him mutter.

And that’s what it is.

I can’t suppress the suspicion any longer.

I pretend I didn’t catch it. Smear the lube over my fingers. Roll to the side. Let my eyes wander from the curls in his neck down his spine. Definded back muscles, dimples above his ass, and his balls where his thighs part. I want to make him cum, too. But I have to have him first.

I fucked her in the ass before. And her. I loved it. I can’t wait to be inside him. It’s going to be a familar feeling. A feeling I like. But still so different. And I only just now become aware of how it’s no longer about being touched only, no, it’s no longer about being lonely and craving someone’s warmth, this is about me and Harry, and how bad we want and need each other and fuck, hasn’t it always been this way? Haven’t we always been too close yet never close enough?

I grab his cheeks, squeeze them to maybe make him laugh, I don’t really know why, I just do it, and then, I gently spread them a little and place my thumb on his tight, pink hole. He flinches and gasps and I move my finger in circles to cover his rim in lube.

"Feels good?"

I’ve never had a girl go for my asshole, I don’t know how it feels, it always felt good to her, or her, or her when I ate it, but I think if any of the many Hers would have asked me if I wanted them to return the favour, I would have laughed and said something utterly stupid like “No, I’m a man. I’m not gay or something.” , then spank her and fuck her again to prove her how much of that manly man I really am.

I think about spanking Harry.

I wonder if he sticks out his ass like this on purpose.

I want to tell him he’s a fucking slut and take him without any further preparation.

But I lean closer, kiss his neck and gently push my thumb past the tight entrance as slow as I can.

He moans into the pillow beneath him and automatically tightens around me.

"Shhh.", I ease him. "Baby, we’ll take it slow, we’ll take it slow."

I fucking hate myself for loving him.

"I’ll take good care of you.", I promise. "Like you take care of me." My cock feels as if the slightest bit of friction will make me cum all over Harry’s thigh. I have to stay in control. I smile at the contrast of my milky, hairy thigh pressed against the crook of his.

"More.", he begs. I keep kissing his neck and shoulder as I slip my index finger in, too. He moans again. I slowly part my thumb and index finger, stretching him, making him open up for me to fuck.

He’s shaking. I put my left arm around him, pull him against my chest. “Baby, it’s okay.”, I mutter. “I want you so, so bad.”

"Want you, too.", he groans. "It’s alright." There’s something sad to the way he spits out these words. I know why.

I want to tell him he’s wrong, but I can’t let the truth pass my lips.

"Then why does it feel like you’re suddenly sad, baby?", I ask instead.

Raindrops on the glass. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

"See, Niall, I know you’re usually not into this. I know you’re just needy. And it’s fine. I didn’t think I’d mind. Turns out I do. It’s just…" He falls silent.

"What is it, baby?" I’m still rub and stretch him, but I know if he’d ask me to stop, I’d stop.

I think: Being numb is better than being set afire by feelings I never thought I’d ever even know.

I know: I don’t want to be numb anymore.

I wonder: Will I become numb again when he leaves?

"I know I’m your best friend.", he begins again and I wish I could see his face better, but half on his stomach, half on his side, I can only see about a quarter of it and most of it is covered by his curls.

"You are!", I assure him. "You’re my best friend, Harry. I love you."

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

He knows when to pretend he didn’t quite mind hearing things as good as I do. He’s even better at it.

"And I know we’ll be alright after this.", he goes on. "But for now, I’m just a hole. I’m not Harry, this isn’t about me, this is about a basic human need and your power over me. You use me. I’m just a fuckhole and don’t tell me that I’m not because I know I am."

I held my breath all the way through these ice cold words. I was shouting at him in my head.

"And I know we’ll be alright after this."- WILL WE? IN WHICH WAY? - "But for now, I’m just a hole." - SHUT UP! - "I’m not Harry, this isn’t about me," - THIS IS NOT TRUE! - "this is about a basic human need and your power over me." - NO, NO, NO, NO! - "You use me." - WE USE EACH OTHER FOR GOOD - "I’m just a fuckhole" - NO, NO, NO, NO, NO. - "and don’t tell me that I’m not because I know I am."

It has stopped raining.

I’m glad my urge to fuck him is strong enough to keep me determined to go on, because there’s a caustic lump in my throat and my the hole in my chest is gaping like never before. I pull him closer, squeeze him, hold him against where it hurts. “You’re so wrong.”, I mumble into the crook of his neck. “Don’t ever, ever say that again.”

"Niall, please, you don’t-"

"Shhhh. Shut up. Shut up, Harry. You’re not just a hole and I’m not just using you, you hear me?" I don’t know if it’s my hot breath on his skin that makes him relax, but he losens up around my fingers and I know I can take him now, so I carefully put myself into the right position. "You’re stupid to believe this isn’t about you, Harry. I’d never do that with anybody else. This is about you only. You’re my best friend. But not just that. You are my favourite boy in the whole world."

"Am I?", he asks. Coy like a little girl. My tip’s poking his entrance.

"You are. You’re my favourite boy. And my bro.", I chuckle. "And sometimes, like now, you’re my baby. My pretty little baby. My boy. Just never fucked my pretty boy before. But I will now. And it’s going to be alright."

"Mhmhm.", he sighs. I soothed him. I’m eased.

"And I’m gonna make you cum, too. I promise."

"Mhm."

That’s when I push. He whimpers, in pain and pleasure, and I hush him again. My eyes roll back and I bite my lip not to moan as well. It’s so good. I’ve missed this. So, so tight. Warm. He’s clenching around me already. So fucking tight.

God, I think I’ve wanted to fuck him ever since.

"Are you okay?", I ask him.

"Mhm, I’m all good.", he chuckles and pushes himself against me to take me in deeper. I grab his hand before his chest and lock my fingers with his. To hold him. He kisses my palm and I respond by pecking his shoulder, before I begin to slowly thrust into him.

Starting out gently, harder with each thrust. The lube’s making is easy, I slide in, out. I roll on him, push him down, so I can properly fuck him into the matress. He’s moving his narrow hips along with mine, I know he likes the way the sheets rub against his throbbing cock. He’s desperate to get off, too.

He’s moaning, I knew he’s a moaner, and I can’t keep myself from spitting out the same words over and over again, the usual fuck as well as the most impure attempts to summon our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ, GOD

OH

 

GOD

I won’t last much longer.

"You like that?", I growl into Harry’s ear, all out of breath, burying my face in his thick locks. They’re all greasy from his sweat now. "Does my baby like that?"

He just whimpers my name in response.

"Love how you feel around me, baby.", I praise him.

I want to show him that I really care. About him.

Because this is about Harry. And me. And us. Not the basic human need. But our need for each other.

"Harry.", I groan, my hand under his chest is almost completely numb from our weight on top of it but I can feel him squeeze it the moment I say his name and he moans mine again. I’m so close now.

"I’m so close.", Harry says, as if the only prominent thought in my head’s been echoing from the walls of my buzzing skull so loudly he heard it.

But he can’t cum, not yet, not like this, not on the sheets.

"Hold on, yeah?", I beg him. "Be a good boy and hold it in. I’m gonna cum first. Then it’s your turn."

"I’ll try.", he pants. Laughs. But I know he’s got that. He’s got himself under control. He’s not like me. I’ve already gotten much better at containing myself. Master of my temper. It wasn’t always this way. Harry’s self control, though, equates to a starving wolf walking through a slaughterhouse without even glancing at the juicy, bloody meat. I had never been like this.

But what stirred me lately? Nothing.

So why get angry?

Why get sad?

Why lose control?

Because of him.

I’m losing control with my full weight on top of him, fucking into my best friend like I never fucked anyone before and I give it to him, give him the control over me, and so much more, all of me, all I can give.

"You’re close?", he asks. "Close, Niall? Gonna cum?"

"Mhmhm."

"Good. Let go.", he purrs. "Cum for me."

I want to and I will. I’m on the edge. Panting, sweating, thrusting into him so hard I know it hurts him, but I have to, I need it, I need him so bad. I want to fill him with my cum. Want to mark him. Want to show him that I really care. I want to show him that I need him. Not just for the sake of how tight and how much of a slut he is for me, but for the sake of his hand still holding mine even though it hurts both of us, for the sake of his heavy breathing and how he moans my name, and for the incomparable feeling of just melting into each other.

Outside, the clouds part to let the sun through. No more rain, no more grey.

I think: It’s probably snowing back home.

I know: I have never felt anything like this before.

I want: Nothing else but what I have at this exact moment.

I let go.

I bite into his shoulder and he whines and I hope I didn’t really hurt him, didn’t hurt my baby, but he chuckles and spreads his legs even further, I cum, so good, like he promised he’d make me, I fill him up and before I even catch my breathe, I roll off of him and on my back, pulling him with and against me. His hair’s sticking to his forehead, I catch a glimpse of his beautiful, exhausted face, before it’s too close to see clear and he kisses me, so greedy this time, so hungry.

He groans into the kiss and I can feel his cock brushing against mine, I’m still throbbing, a bit of my cum landed on my stomach as I pulled out and turned around. I reach for Harry’s cock and wrap my hands around it yet again, watch him throw his head back, every muscle strained. The sun light reflects in his hair, he’s glowing above me, looks like he’s got a fucking halo. He’s biting his pink lip, eyes shut, he’s growling, fucking into my hand.

"God, look at you.", I mutter. I don’t know if I really wanted to say it out loud. "Come on, baby, will you cum for me now?"

He just smirks, in ecstasy still, before he abruptly stops thrusting and I can feel the warm, sticky juice spill over my fingers, drops landing on the hairy patch below my belly button.

"Mhhh.", he growls, starting to slowly circle his hips again to glory in the moment of his aftershock.

I just watch him.

Golden sunlight floods the room, casting shimmering patterns on the shiny white furniture. I am no longer a roaring ocean, but a serene oasis in the desert and Harry above me is the shadow that protects me.

I put my hands on his chest to feel his heart. It’s no longer racing.

"Hey.", he says to me as he opens his eyes, fixating mine immediately.

"Hey.", I chuckle.

We both peek at our cum on my stomach.

And before I know it, he bends over and licks it off of me. He slowly drags his flat tongue from my pubes to my belly button, eating up our mixed juices like a kitten. Comes up again and lowers himself on me. Puts his lips on mine and I open my mouth because I know he wants to share.

I let him spit on my tongue and I taste us.

"Mh.", he growls as we swallow and I know that idiot is trying hard to stay serious, but we both burst out laughing.

And that’s it.

I think in this moment, sweaty, tired, still baffled, in a way, my process stops, just for a minute, in which I lay there and stare at him, and the evening sun made its way through the thick clouds just for us, the man above me takes my hands in his and mouths something about a basic human need and I know he’s my warmth on a Sunday morning and he’s been that for half a decade now, and this right, I am a man, I know myself, I know my priorities, I know my body and I know my mind, and I’ve been set afire, I burst into flames on top of this beautiful, beautiful man, my best friend, my everything, never felt more alive, never felt more like me, yet I am a stranger to myself, but I won’t label what I don’t understand.

For now, I just love it.

"Wanna go to the beach?", he asks. "Fight the Cabin Fever?"

And he picks up where this started. As if it never happened. And I know he won’t purposely pretend that it didn’t, not after I told him it meant something more than what he thought he did, but for this moment, I go along with it, breathe in and nod.

"There’ll be people. Watching us.", he says. "Are you sure you want to go?"

"There’s always people watching.", I mutter. "Don’t care right now. Let’s go."

So, the moment ends. The process goes on. I go on. He goes on. I don’t know if we go on together.

I’ll see.

I can’t judge what I have no idea of.

Love is hard to understand.

I think: Constant dripping wears the stone and I will be a wave again.

I know: He’ll be around and there for me when I need it.

I want:


End file.
